A Song for Summer
by HistoryLights
Summary: Mycroft Holmes hasn't always been an Ice Man. There was a time when he wasn't quite so cold. There was a person who once warmed his days... The Margaret Holmes Trilogy: Book one
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Gregory Lestrade stood in front of the grave. It was a bright and sunny day. Not a single cloud marred the deep blue sky. It was completely uncharacteristic for an English spring day. It was warm but oppressively so the way it normally way. It was rather pleasant, he decided.

He hated it.

It didn't seem right, he thought, looking down at the cool black headstone. The name, SHERLOCK HOLMES was engraved in bold silver letters. It just didn't seem right that the day should be beautiful when before him was a life snuffed out long before its time.

He blamed himself. Naturally. How could he not? If he hadn't believed what Donovan and Anderson had told him. If he hadn't let himself be swayed. After the incident at 221b, he knew he should have gone after him on his own. If he had then maybe...

'Maybe...what?' he snarled at himself. 'Maybe he'd still be alive? Do you really think you could have stopped him?'

He'd seen the papers, the news reports. He'd heard the people talking. The Sherlock Holmes they'd painted was nothing like the young man he'd known. They'd painted a picture of a monster. A man driven by the need to impress those around him. He didn't believe a word of it.

Not that it mattered now.

He felt, rather than heard, a person move to stand beside him. He closed his eyes. Not wanting to them just yet, he made to move away; to give them some privacy.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Please, do no blame yourself, Gregory." The man said softly. Always soft. Very rarely had he heard him raise his voice in all of the years he'd known him. Not even when...

Lestrade breathed deeply. Thinking about THAT was definitely NOT going to help him.

"I failed you again Mycroft." he whispered miserably. "You asked me to watch out for him and I-" he choked on the last of his sentence.

"No, Gregory, you did exactly as I expected of you. More even." Mycroft said gently. "Neither of us could have anticipated an outcome such as this. I never dreamed that I'd-" Mycroft stopped and took a deep breath. When he continued, after a few moments, his voice was noticeably strained.

"I'd never thought that I'd have to bury my own little brother."

Silence overcame the two of them. And it was a good ten minutes before Lestrade had mustered up enough nerve to ask. "You still think about her?"

Most people when asked this seemingly random question who look at the grieving inspector in confusion as obviously, the person buried in the grave in front of them was male and NOT female. Mycroft though, understood immediately.

"It was a year ago, Gregory." he said. His tone was light, amused, but Lestrade could tell that it was forced. He turned to the politician in an angry huff.

Mycroft's face was worn and haggard. It looked as though the man hadn't slept in ages. The space underneath his eyes was dark and bruised; although it did look like he'd finally lost that (non existent) fat he'd been so dying to get rid of. In fact, right now, the man looked underweight with his dark blue three piece suit hanging limply off his frame.

Mycroft looked positively undone and for a moment, Lestrade thought better of what he'd been about to say.

But no, he steeled himself. He'd watched his friend nearly destroy himself the last time; he wasn't about to let it happen again.

"And yet, you still wear the ring as if she died yesterday, Mycroft." he said.

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but Lestrade cut him off.

"Don't you give me that crap about how 'Lots of widowers keep their wives rings' because you're not just wearing HER ring, Mycroft," his voice broke slightly as he said the next part. "You're still wearing your own on your finger as well."

Silence again. A bird twittered in the distance. A light breeze picked up and ruffled the trees and both men's clothing.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, Mycroft whispered "I can't, Gregory. You must understand. Not now... I can't."

Lestrade sighed, exhaustion catching up with him. "Then when, Mycroft?" he asked. When he received no response, he growled in frustration.

He stared down at the grave once more, noticing how Mycroft's eyes did the same. Once more he sighed.

"If you want to get over Sherlock's death Mycroft," he said. "You're going to HAVE to get over Margret's as well."

Prologue/End


	2. Song One Part one

Part one

British Museum of Antiquity- Five years Ago

In all of her thirty years; Margaret Elaine Bradshaw could not recall ever having a worse day than the one she was currently experiencing.

Not only had her alarm clock failed to go off this morning, causing her to wake forty-five minutes late and ensuring that she would be late for work; but as she raced out of her room into the kitchen of her modest apartment, she found that her cat, Tobey, had knocked her phone off of the counter where it had been charging and shattered it.

As if that hadn't been enough, her wonderful car had decided to add to the excitement by absolutely refusing to start up.

Thank god her sister Vivian had been awake and willing to drive her- for a price of course. But Margaret hardly cared about a month's worth of chocolate biscotti as long as she got to the museum.

Upon entering the lobby, Margaret had been both shocked and slightly dismayed to find it crawling, not with patrons eager to learn, but with men all wearing dark colored suits. Some were inspecting the various exhibits, others were talking to nervous looking employees, and still others were muttering into mobile phones and headsets.

For a moment, she'd been certain that she'd resembled a fish out of water, with her mouth opening and closing as she fought to say something. Anything.

"Oh myLANTA!" twanged a loud female voice from somewhere in front of her.

She'd looked through the sea of people to see her friend Catherine Jones talking to one of the suited men. Catherine, a pretty blonde studying abroad from Georgia in the U.S. looked exasperated and angry.

Margaret had been about to call out to her when Catherine looked up and spied her. Her eyes held an accusatory look that said, "Where in the seven holy hells have you been?"

Margaret shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Catherine turned back to the man she was talking with and muttered something to him. The man blushed, scowled and gave a nod. With a grin of satisfaction, she'd made her way over to Margaret, who'd smiled and shook her head.

"What on earth did you say to him?" she'd giggled.

Catherine grinned, "Oh nothing much. Just that if he was done with his failed attempt at seducin me, could I pretty please go and fill my dearest friend in before the other piranhas descended upon her as well." Margaret had snorted and gestured toward the lobby.

"Right, so what's all this then?" she'd asked. Catherine had scowled and shook her head, her curled bouncing to and fro.

Before she could answer though, another suited man had walked up to the women.

"Excuse me-" Catherine cut him off with a snarl.

"What is it NOW? Can't you see we are talkin here?" The man- young, thin, with dark brunette hair and blue eyes, had looked startled at the exclamation.

"Yes, but Ma'am-"

"But nothin Junior. Why don't you go bore the mummies with your drivel hmm? They can't get anymore dead than they already are."

The young man stood his ground, although there was a definite tint to his cheeks.

Margaret had taken pity on the poor man. She knew how bad her friend could get once she'd been riled up.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she'd asked kindly.

The man cleared his throat. "Yes, um, Mr. Holmes requested that you be brought to the director's office as soon as you arrived."

Margaret blink. She'd turned to Catherine who'd just shrugged.

"It's been like this all morning, Maggie." she said. "They're from the government apparently... or somethin ridiculous like that."

Margaret paled. These men were from the government? That would explain the dark suits...the headsets...dear god...

She swallowed thickly. "Um, right..." she'd choked out. "I'll uh just be along then shall I?"

The federal agent had nodded. "I'm supposed to escort you Ma'am." he'd said. "If you will follow me, please."

Margaret had nodded and mouthed a quick, "Call you later" to Catherine, who'd nodded in reply. Shaking, Margaret had left her friend's side to follow the agent down the familiar hallways to the museum director's office.

The walk was passed in silence. The agent having seemingly no more to say and Maggie far too nervous to even think about initiating a conversation. All along the way, they'd passed by her friends and colleagues who'd given her half startled, half frightened looks. She'd tried to smile back reassuringly, but it was hard when she herself had no idea what was going on.

They reached the director's door and stopped. The agent knocked once on the big oak door, nodded to Maggie then turned and left the way they'd come.

Maggie had been left alone to face whatever-whoever lay waiting on the other side of the door.

The door was opened by another agent. This one also brunette but older than the previous. He'd said nothing but motioned for her to come inside the office...

So there she sat, alone. Her hand laying idle in her lap. She wonder briefly what karma god she'd managed to piss off this time.

While she waited, she thought. Her mind spiraling dangerously out of control. Why were government agents here at the British Museum. Had something happened? What could they possibly want with a simple volunteer like her? It didn't make any sense.

And where was the director at? The big Irishman who was always in his office during working hours was no where to be seen. Was he working damage control?

Terrible ideas began to take root. Had the director been murdered? Was he missing or arrested? Could that be the reason for all the feds roaming the hallways?

Her mind continued to buzz with questions that had no answers for what seemed like forever.

The door opened. The sudden noise making her jump in her seat and shaking her from her dark reveries. She turned to see who had entered, half hoping it was Mr. McLeod, the Museum director.

It wasn't.

It was a man though. Tall with just a tad bit of pudge around his midsection, barely noticeable under his expensive looking suit. She looked his over and took his his thin boyish face with soft cheeks. His light blue eyes and mop of slightly curled auburn hair. His full lips and the general masculinity that exuded from his very being. This, she decided, was a man of power. A man who was used to getting his own way. And getting it often. More accurately, he was like a god among men.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice whispered, "Dangerous." but she was far too entranced to hear it.

He gave her a brief smile as he entered. "Margaret Bradshaw?" he asked, though she could plainly tell that it wasn't a question at all. She nodded nonetheless.

"Um, yes." she said intelligently-not. She gave herself a mental shake and tried again."Would you mind telling me where Mr. McLeod is? Is he alright?" The man raised an eyebrow. He walked around to the other side of the desk and sat.

"Your director," he replied. "Is in the midst of enjoying a well deserved, all expenses paid holiday. He is perfectly sound and will return as soon as this affair is settled."

Maggie sighed in relief, a weight lifting from her chest. "Oh, well that's good I guess." she said. "but um-"

The man cut her off. "Why then, have I pulled you away from your duties and filled your museum with my men?"

Margaret nodded curtly, slightly miffed at being cut off.

"I can assure you Ms. Bradshaw, that we do have a method to our madness. One that will soon become quite clear." he said cryptically.

Something inside Maggie broke. Maybe it the stress of waking up late. Or the sight of so many Feds crawling around her place of work, or even this mysterious stranger in front of her who seemed like he had all of the answers but was refusing to tell them to her, or a combination of all these things, but she just couldn't stop the snarl that rose from her.

"And I'm suppose to just accept that am I?" She snapped, her eyes blazing. "You people think that just because you drive big fancy bloody cars and wear bloody fancy clothes and have tea with the bloody queen, you can come in here and start ordering us hard working citizens around like so much garbage without rhyme or reason? If you only knew what I had to go through just to GET here this morning...!"

Maggie was only vaguely aware that she was now standing up and leaning over the desk, her hand on the dark oak, yelling at the official in front of her.

When she finished with a huff, he stated calmly. "I've always prided myself on never falling in with stereotypes, Ms. Bradshaw, but after your little display, I'm quite inclined to believe the tales of redheaded fury."

Maggie blinked. It was such a random statement that it dissolved any negative feelings she may have had left.

With a sigh, she sat heavily down in her chair and rubbed her eyes with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking at him. "It's just been a rather...difficult...day."

He said nothing and simply stared at her. Margaret sighed again and bit her lip.

Afraid she might have offended him, she cleared her throat and said. "Look, why don't we just rewind this whole thing and start from the beginning? Hello. I'm Margaret Bradshaw."

She held out her hand for him to shake. It took a few moments but eventually he slid his hand around hers.

Vaguely she wondered at the softness of his skin and why it looked like his nails had recently been manicured.

'His nails look nicer than mine do,' she thought as they shook. Any thought she might have had after that faded when he spoke again and she decided that he had a very nice voice. Soft, yet authoritative. Gentle, yet brimming with knowledge.

"Mycroft Holmes."

~MH~

If anyone had asked Mycroft, he would have been the first to admit that the plan was a reckless one. And he was certainly used to reckless, what with a delinquent little brother who was hell bent on either getting himself killed or getting himself thrown into prison. And only one of those Mycroft had the power to undo.

It didn't help that his brother's latest scheme had happened shortly before he'd come to the museum. As if he wasn't already under enough duress to keep this ridiculous plan running as smooth as possible.

The call had come just as he was about to leave his family's ancestral home. Annoyed, he'd pulled out his mobile to see who it was that chose to bother him at such an hour. Checking the caller ID while sliding into the back of his 2012 Bentley, he sighed wearily when the name Scotland Yard came up.

'What's he done now?' he wondered as he pressed the 'talk' button. The door closed after him as he was connected.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. On the other line, there was a small cough. 'Male.' he deduced absently in his head.

"Mr. Holmes? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade..." 'Older man. Late 30's, early, maybe even mid 40's.

"Yes," he replied tiredly. "And what's my fool of a brother done this time?" There was a small pause then the man said,

"Right. Um, you think you could come down to the Yard and pick him up? He's a bit-"

"Obnoxious?" Mycroft supplied. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache coming and he rubbed at his temples to try and stave it off.

"High as a bloody kite, is more the term I was looking for."

Mycroft's heart stopped for a split second. His brother. Using? Again? Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

"Yes, I'll send someone along to collect him Inspector. I'm afraid I'm on my way to an immensely important meeting that I absolutely cannot get away from..." he paused then asked quietly. "Is he alright otherwise? He hasn't hurt himself has he?"

A sigh came across the other line, making the connection sound staticy. "To be honest Mr. Holmes. I'm surprised he hadn't overdosed. We found him with at least 10 grams of cocaine. Who knows how much he'd taken before that. Just glad that he was at least lucid enough to give us a contact name."

Mycroft was silent as he tried to steady his emotions. He breathed deeply and watched the scenery as it dashed by the tinted windows.

"Right. Thank you again, Inspector. My associate," He looked up to the driver, a pretty brunette woman. She sensed his gaze on her and mouthed a name toward him in the rear view mirror.

"My associate, Gloria, will be along shortly. If there are anymore questions or concerns, please direct them to her." He said this stiffly and hung up. He leaned back against the cool leather seat with his eyes closed.

From up in the front, _Gloria_ asked, "Would you like for me to take him to the house, Sir?" Gloria wasn't her real name. No one knew what her actual name was. She wouldn't say. And no one bothered to ask. She'd been with Mycroft for close to six months now and so far, he was pleased with her work. She was quick and efficient and above all else; discreet.

And sadly, this wasn't the first time, she'd done pick up duty. And it wouldn't be the last. Not for a long time. Not if his brother continued on the way he was.

He sighed and rubbed at his temples again. "If you would." he replied. "And have the doctor come up as well. You know which one I'm sure."

She nodded as they pulled up in front of the British Museum of Antiquity. "Of course, Sir. I'll keep you updated."

Mycroft got out and looked at the building in front of him. It was ominously impressive. Filled with the histories of a thousand cultures, it was one of the world's most famous museums. And it was where he could look forward to spending the remainder of his free time in the coming months.

He put his worry for his brother out of his mind for the time being. He would be in good hands until he could deal with him. Now he had a mission to complete. One that if his superiors hadn't been so desperate for results, would have been scrapped from conception.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and went inside.

The museum director had been easy enough to get rid of. A promise of a few months peace, not to mention a few extra quid, was more than enough to send the Irishman merrily on his way.

The next hurdle was the woman. Margaret Bradshaw. It was on her cooperation that the success or failure of the entire plan tinged. And from what he'd encountered thus far, his bets were on complete failure.

Already, she'd had a veritable meltdown. And he hadn't even mentioned her part in the plan yet. He sat in the large swivel chair behind the desk as she shouted at him for nearly a full minute. Then ever so calmly he'd made a comment about her temper to which, surprisingly, she'd deflated at.

Her apology amused him to no end. As if someone like her could honestly offend him. Nevertheless, he took her offered hand and told her his name.

She was rather pretty, he thought. In an exotic fashion. Her dark red hair was tied back in a low ponytail. If let loose, Mycroft suspected that is would fall nearly to the small of her back. The loose strands that fell away from the rest framed a heart shaped face with dark brown eyes and delicate cheekbones and full pink lips.

She wasn't a small woman by any means, he noted, but neither was she grotesquely huge either. Rather she was somewhere in the middle and the clothing she wore- the dark traditional museum uniform and black high heels- while not exactly flattering, did have a way of outlining her curves nicely.

Or maybe he'd just imagined that.

She wasn't thin, which meant probably that she enjoyed a good meal, possibly even cooked by herself.

Realizing that he still held her hand while these thoughts swam through his head, he quickly let her go and sat back in his chair.

A smile broke out on her face. "Well, now that we've gotten that settled." she said. "Mind telling me what I'm doing?"

Mycroft was vaguely bemused at how calm she sounded now. Chalking it up to a woman's mood swings-another reason he hadn't liked this plan- he leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He had to be careful how he phrased the next bit.

"Some...disturbing...information has been brought to our attention, Ms. Bradshaw." he paused to in her reaction. She was curious, that was clear in the way her head tilted but she was also concerned. For her museum? Most likely.

"While the information does pertain this museum, in a sense, it was not its focal point." he could see the gears in her head turning.

A second later, she spoke up, "Is something going to happen?" she asked. "Is that why you're all here? Why Mr. McLeod's been sent away?" Mycroft couldn't help the small smile that crossed his mouth. She was quick. A pleasant surprise, he hadn't expected. Perhaps all was not lost.

"You've caught on quicker than most, Ms. Bradshaw." he said. She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "We've received information that an attack is coming, but we know neither where or by who. All we've been told is that it involves this museum in some fashion."

Margaret frowned. "An attack?" Her eyes widened as it clicked. "You mean as in a _terrorist_ attack? Here?" A slight note of panic made its way into her voice. "Oh dear god! I swear I don't know a thing about it! You've got to believe me!"

Mycroft sighed internally. He could understand panic. It was a natural human reaction in a situation like this. Natural and oh so very tiresome. What's more, it more often than not, tended to make things worse and slow things down while people got their emotions in check.

"My dear," he said. "If you were truly a suspect, I can assure you that we would not be sitting in your director's office casually talking about it like it was the weather" he gave her a smile. This seemed to reassure her and she nodded slowly.

"But, then, what's it got to do with the museum if you don't think anyone here is involved?"

Mycroft chose his next words carefully. "It will be the center of our plan to stop the attack of course. A plan which I'm sure you've noticed is already in effect." he paused to let her digest this, waiting for her reaction.

Margaret remained silent though. She began to bite the inside of her lip.

'Nervous habit.' Mycroft thought. "Clever girl is trying to piece together everything I've said.'

"Alright..." she started slowly. "But that still doesn't tell me what you want with me though..."

"Ah," Mycroft sighed soft. "Now we come to the center of the issue." He could tell that he had her full attention now. Her brown eyes bore into him like lasers through a chalk board.

"In simple terms, my Dear," he said. "We are going to flush out the leader of this terrorist group. And you, Ms. Bradshaw, are going to help us do it."

Part one/end

A/N: Dear. God. Longest chapter I've ever written for a fanfiction! As you may have already noticed, these chapters will be slower coming out since they take so much time and research. If anyone see any mistakes regarding drug measurement or the British Museum please let me know :)


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